The Lunar Crest Academy: Marked by The Lycans
Chapter 64: Blood and Bonds

Chapter 64: Chapter 64: Blood and Bonds

Lorraine’s POV

Pain has a sound.

It’s not screaming. It’s not sobbing. It’s the absence of breath. The stuttering gasp that gets caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat as you realize your body has become your cage. That was me. Trapped.

I touched my chest, slowly, terrified of what I’d feel, and what I wouldn’t. My fingertips met skin that wasn’t torn open anymore, but it wasn’t whole either. The wound had closed in some places, rough scar tissue forming like a rushed patch job. But it still throbbed violently underneath, numb and burning at once, as though my body wasn’t sure what to do with itself. I couldn’t breathe right. Every inhale felt like my ribs were cracking.

And then Kieran turned to me.

"I have to mark you."

I blinked at him. "What?"

He moved closer, his expression serious, unreadable. There was something simmering behind his eyes, something he didn’t want me to see.

"To put it simply," he said, his voice rough, "if you want to be healed completely.... I need to claim you. Fully. With my mark. I must fill you up with my seed."

I let out a bitter, breathless laugh. "Are you seriously suggesting that the way to heal this...." I gestured to my barely closed chest wound, "....is to fuck me?"

His lips didn’t twitch. His expression didn’t change. That scared me more than if he’d laughed it off.

"You’re not joking," I whispered.

"No."

I was already shaking my head. "That’s not healing. That’s..... taking advantage. It doesn’t make sense, how is you fucking me supposed to heal me?"

His jaw flexed slightly, but still, he kept calm. Too calm.

"You don’t understand what it means when a Lycan marks someone" he said, voice low, careful. "During sex, a Lycan’s release is charged with healing hormones meant to repair, restore, and strengthen a mate. It’s not fantasy. It’s survival."

I stared at him, blood pounding in my ears. "So let me get this straight. You’re telling me that Lycan.... cum is a magical healing remedy?"

For a moment, a corner of his mouth twitched like he wanted to laugh, but he didn’t. He just nodded once, solemn.

I snorted, even though it hurt. "Well, fuck the healers then. Who needs medicine when you’ve got a dick full of miracles?"

That time, he did smirk. Just a little.

But it faded quickly.

"I’m not trying to joke, Lorraine. I’m telling you the truth. Your wolf tried to save you, she woke up for a second and gave everything she had to keep you alive. But it wasn’t enough. That wound is opening again. You don’t have much time."

I hated that his voice sounded so steady. So logical. Like he wasn’t standing in front of me talking about marking me as some kind of solution.

"No."

He arched a brow. "No?"

"I’m not giving you my body just because you think it’s convenient."

"Convenient?" His eyes narrowed. "Lorraine, I’ve fought every instinct I have to not claim you from the moment I saw you. This isn’t about convenience."

"Then what is it?" I snapped.

He was quiet.

And then he said, almost too softly, "It’s about survival."

I couldn’t listen anymore. I couldn’t sit there, bleeding and aching and confused out of my mind while the Lycan prince offered to sleep with me like it was some noble sacrifice.

"I need the bathroom," I muttered, trying to push myself up. My arms trembled. My body screamed.

He didn’t stop me. He only pointed. "It’s through there. Don’t lock the door. If you collapse, I’m coming in."

I didn’t answer. I shuffled to the bathroom like a corpse and locked the door the second I got in.

The moment it clicked shut, I slumped against the sink and turned the faucet. Water burst forth, loud and chaotic, like my thoughts. I cupped my hands and splashed it on my face again and again until my skin stung from the cold.

Then I looked in the mirror.

And I saw her.

Not the strong, sharp-tongued girl I used to be. Not the wolf who stood her ground even when she had none. No. The reflection was someone else.

Pale. Hollow. Weak.

My shirt clung to me, damp with sweat and....

No. No.

I looked closer.

The fabric at my chest was turning red.

My heart plummeted.

With trembling fingers, I unbuttoned the top of my shirt and pulled it aside.

The gaping wound on my chest was reopening....

************

BloodFang Pack Grounds; Alpha’s Training Arena

The clang of fists meeting flesh echoed across the BloodFang Pack’s private training arena, an open, brutal stretch behind the Alpha’s mansion where mercy was a forgotten concept. In the center stood a man, bare-chested and soaked in sweat, his movements swift and lethal. He was middle-aged, but age had done nothing to soften him. If anything, it had carved power and violence deeper into his bones. His frame was solid, his muscles coiled like a beast in constant motion.

Five warriors surrounded him, younger and strong, but they were nothing more than prey circling a seasoned predator. He moved among them like a phantom, striking with frightening precision. A growl escaped him as he elbowed one across the temple, sending him crashing to the ground. Another lunged, but he ducked low, swept his legs, and drove a clawed fist into his gut. The others barely had time to react before he pivoted, grabbed one by the neck, and slashed his throat open with a flick of his claws.

Blood sprayed in a high arc, splattering across his face and chest. He paused for a moment, eyes glinting with a primal gleam. Then tgen slowly, deliberately, he ran his tongue across his arm, tasting the blood as though it were wine. A dark, satisfied grin stretched across his lips.

Just then, the crunch of hesitant footsteps echoed behind him. A young pack messenger approached, eyes downcast, head bowed in deference.

"Alpha Ashthorne," he said, voice trembling.

He didn’t look at him at first. He knelt beside one of the downed warriors, dragging a claw along the man’s jaw. "What is it?" he asked coldly, still toying with his prey.

"We’ve.... just received a letter," the messenger said, voice tight. "From Sir Alistair."

That made him pause. He turned, finally meeting the messenger’s eyes. "Alistair sends letters now?" he sneered. "I thought that was Selene’s job." He stood to his full height, towering over the smaller man. "What does the letter say?"

The messenger hesitated. Just for a second. But that second stretched too long, and the Alpha’s gaze sharpened into something deadly.

"Well?" he barked.

"I.... I’m sorry, Alpha...." the messenger stammered. "The letter says..... Selene Ashthorne is dead."

Silence fell over the training ground. The wind seemed to still.

The messenger swallowed hard. "It says.... the Lycan prince ripped your daughter’s heart out."

The breath that left Alpha Desmond Ashthorne was slow, measured, too measured. His expression did not change. No fury. No grief. Only a stillness that was far more terrifying. Then, ever so slightly, his nostrils flared, and his claws curled into fists.

His voice, when it came, was low and laced with something ancient and murderous.

"Bring me the letter."

The messenger nodded and fled.

Desmond Ashthorne turned back to the bloodied field, his gaze distant now, though his body was still a weapon coiled tight.

"My daughter....." he murmured, voice barely audible. "Ripped apart by the Lycan Prince."

A breath. Then a cold smile.

"So it’s war then."